Little Brother
by samasim
Summary: They were growing up. Even his cousin Gladstone was growing up. Donald realized with every passing day - feeling quite some shame - how immature and childish they both had been.


AN: Since DuckTales is an adaptation of the Disney Ducks comics, I will post this drabble here, as I imagine the events happening in the same universe. You gotta be familiar with the comics though, or this might be a bit confusing.

The characters make some references to past events that are not elaborated upon. It's up to the reader's interpretation. This drabble is meant to be a sort of epilogue scene to a bigger story, but it has been edited and can be read and understood on its own. As a simple moment in time.

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 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

The low hum of a lullaby wafted softly through the house as Donald let himself into the bungalow. The door handle turned easily in his hand.

"Gladstone? Hey, I'm here," he called.

A kettle began to whistle, and the hummed tune ceased. "I'm in the kitchen," answered the tired voice he recognized as his cousin's. He followed it through the chilly, empty living room, painted with the setting sun's red hues. The family's antique grandfather clock ticked away, the sound familiar, and almost hypnotic to the sailor's ears.

Gladstone was seated at his kitchen table. The whistling kettle just kept on whistling, ignored by its owner, and Donald knew it was his to take care of.

On the table in front of his cousin, perched on a nest of fluffed blankets, was an egg.

Cream-colored and unusually freckled, it looked very cute to any duck with a parental instinct. Gladstone's fingers were stroking the freckled egg shell, and he seemed unaware of his jerky, agitated movements. Donald raised his eyebrow at his cousin's uncharacteristically unkempt appearance and felt a rising tinge of worry in his chest.

Of course Gladstone, being who he is, could never look anything short of handsome. Still, the worry in Donald's gut did not ease any as he noticed the absence of his signature attention to looks. He was in a simple nightshirt, and his prided coiffe was nowhere to be found - Gladstone's feathers splayed dully backwards across his head, and a couple stuck up comically to the side, reminding Donald of the larks he often saw when he went fishing with his boys in the pond.

In absence of the regular getup and smug attitude Gladstone never left home without, Donald found himself - again - surprised by how boyish his cousin really looked.

"He ain't gonna come out any faster if you do that, you know," he said genially.

"Pull that thing out of its plug and sit down," said his cousin in a strained voice.

Donald's heart began thumping. "What's wrong?"

Gladstone's face was changing colors rather fast, and the most prominent was the red spreading across his features. "Just...sit down." He wasn't looking at the egg anymore. He was staring unseeingly down at the tablecloth, his fingers curling against the egg, and Donald was sure he wasn't aware how strong his grip was becoming.

"Hey, just - put your hands down here for a moment -" he took his cousin's unresisting hands off the unhatched infant as he spoke and laid them on the table, trying hard to seem calm and in control of the situation - something that has always been impossible around Gladstone. "- and I'll sit in a jiff."

Donald had barely turned towards the counter and pulled out the kettle's plug - something that took no longer than three seconds - when Gladstone decided he couldn't wait one longer. "I messed up. It must be my damn luck," he began, voice choked.

"What's goin' on?" demanded Donald, dropping into the seat opposite his cousin. He looked at the egg quickly, as if he'd find the answer written across it. Gladstone's shoulders were shaking, and his hands were around the egg again, massaging its sides fervently in a disturbed attempt at comfort.

"I...I woke up in the afternoon. A-and I realized the egg wasn't..properly wrapped up in the sheets -" began Gladstone, his voice rising several octaves in the span of those few words. "It was cold, and..and I-I -" a sob escaped, and Donald felt his blood turn into ice cold water. "I wrapped him b-back up in his blankets, but - but he's not responding Donald. He - he always m-moved around inside and..and n-now he hasn't moved at all since and I - I -"

Donald couldn't talk; he couldn't breathe.

"I t-tried to make him move. Whenever I t-talked or sang t-to him h-he always responded and n-now there's n-nothing. The heating's busted but I didn't care - I thought the b-blankets would be enough and with my _luck_ -" his face crumpled and his hands again fisted against the egg's smooth creamy surface. "N-nothing bad would happen! _How could a b-baby possibly be bad luck to me?_ Why would something l-like this happen-?"

"Gladstone -"

"I killed him," choked Gladstone, but Donald barely discerned it through the loud, heartbroken sobbing that filled the kitchen.

Donald wasn't having it. He plucked the egg out of its nest - and out of Gladstone's trembling fingers - and rested his head against it, listening desperately for a hum, a movement, a rustling feather, anything at all.

"Shut up! I'm trying to listen!" he shouted, barely refraining from cussing. It was hard, so very hard, not to panic when your cousin tells you their little brother is a stillborn and begins bawling. Some adults they were.

"Gladstone! **Shut**. _**Up**_!"

Giving up trying to hear anything in the kitchen, he jumped out of his chair and ran out to the living room. Unexpectedly, he heard Gladstone hurrying after him, still crying loud, weepy tears.

"What're you gonna do!" he cried. "What're you gonna do to him -!"

"What do you think I'm gonna do, roll him down the stairs?" shouted the sailor crossly. "Stay in the damn kitchen so I can focus!"

When it was obvious Gladstone didn't want the egg out of his sight, Donald told him to sit his tail the hell down on the sofa farthest away from him. He grabbed the light stand by the large red armchair, and tilted it against the arm of the chair so that it was a few good degrees off the floor. He sat underneath it, held the egg up over his head and began turning it around in every which way.

A tense minute passed. And then two. Donald halted his movements suddenly, and lowered the egg and began rubbing his sleeve against its bottom side. Gladstone watched his cousin with open, rapt attention, searching every line on his face for a clue.

Donald put his head back against the shell and listened again. A moment passed, and he closed his eyes and heavily fell back against the side of the chair, taking in the breath he had forgotten to.

"..Really?" he said after a moment. Gladstone had joined him on the carpet. " _Really_ , Gladstone? Have you never been around an egg your whole damn life? You almost _killed_ me, dammit."

"I - what -"

"The baby was curled up sleeping against the bottom, you loser," said Donald, deliberately. "He was just cold."

He gave the egg a pat and extended it back to his cousin, who took it against his chest.

"..Thanks," said the gander, breathing deeply. "Thanks, Donald. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't come as fast as you did."

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

In the kitchen, the two cousins sat at the table, each with a hot cup of tea in their hands. The rest of the hot water was wisely used by Donald to dampen one of the towels warmly and loosely wrap it around the egg ("you have to remove it after no more than ten minutes, though. Set your watch now."). Said egg was once more perched between them on the table's surface.

"This egg is ridiculously cute," snorted Donald after a few moments of silence. "I keep looking at it like it'll speak to me or something. I'm such a sap."

"You should talk. I spend half my time singing to it," said Gladstone, his relaxed, casual manner returning. He took a sip from his cup, and shook his head in mild irritation when one of his stray head feathers dipped into the hot beverage. "I gotta do my hair."

Donald rolled his eyes as high up as they could possibly go.

"Uh-huh. So, did you guys decide on the name?" he asked.

"Shamrock."

"...I'm gonna _kill_ Aunt Daph."

"Hey, it's her kid. She gets first, second and third dibs."

"I can't believe she remembered to have a kid now. We're grown-ass adults."

"It works out. I have a cousin who can tell me how to take care of an egg when she's not around."

"Huh! You're looking at the guy who raised three kids since he was eighteen," said Donald proudly. "And I had to look after _three_ eggs!"

Gladstone was silent for a moment, gazing at the liquid in his cup. Donald could have almost called the action contemplative, and he wanted to tease Gladstone about how unfitting it was of him.

Gladstone however, spoke first. "I miss Della, already," he said with melancholy. Of course, Donald wasn't surprised.

He knew how close his sister and Gladstone have been since childhood. She had always been the better twin. She was the one who understood Gladstone's wordless craving for love and companionship and clicked with him in a way no one did. He, on the other hand, was the immature idiot with a dark green sheath of jealousy over his eyes his whole life.

"Yeah. So do I," he said quietly. "Let's see if she can keep her promise and be back for Christmas, for once."

Della was a pilot - a great pilot, at that. It had always been her dream to fly. His sister was optimistic and dreamy and boundlessly kind. Huey, Louie, and Dewey barely knew her, but Donald and Gladstone lived their whole childhoods with her. It oftentimes it broke his heart, how her own sons never got to experience what that was like.

It was always hard explaining why their mother wasn't around as often as she should be. The truth of the matter was that Della...had the same unfortunate talent to attract ill-fortune as her brother. She _wanted_ to be there, but something always happened.

He did his absolute best to make Della's absence not too hard on the boys, but in his jealousy-driven attitude towards his cousin, Donald had never really thought how hard Della's long absences were on Gladstone, as well. She was - and remains - his best friend, and the one he pined for and would do absolutely anything for.

 _I was an idiot_ , thought the sailor to himself. He seemed to collect more and more regrets into his mental archives as the years passed. Was he becoming wiser _at all_ with every passing year..?

In his narrow, jealous view of his cousin's incredible luck, he had never thought that Gladstone would be one to go so far for anyone. He had assumed his cousin to be the biggest prat because he missed his old playmate, and had nothing better to do in his boredom than to annoy her brother and invite himself to his outings and even to his _dates_ , for God's sake. He was wrong.

And since Gladstone was prone to obsession - a mark of a childish temperament – it made sense, given his luck that has always sheltered him from the real world. Donald saw firsthand how that luck had nearly destroyed him in the most roundabout way possible. He could have written a thriller out of it.

Gladstone was willing to give up his luck for another person, but a Gladstone without luck **and** without love wanted nothing more than to die.

Donald still had nightmares about it.

"Will the boys be going back home with you?" asked the gander as he changed the towels around the egg, pulling Donald out of his sad thoughts.

"Nah, they're staying with their Uncle Scrooge."

Gladstone looked surprised. "I thought they wouldn't wanna wait till they're back with you. I mean, I never thought of Uncle Scrooge as the parental type, you know? They really wanna stay with him?"

"They love him, and he absolutely _adores_ them. Yeah, I know," he said, laughing at Gladstone's incredulous expression. "But I knew I chose right when I left them in his care. I know how Uncle Scrooge is – when he's not chasing after new prospects, but I guess I didn't know how much _he_ needed _them_ in his life.."

"Why wouldn't he? They have Della's kindness, and thirst for adventure."

Donald thought for a moment. "..They also have their father's wits, and his looks, too."

Gladstone turned his face in disgust. "You _had_ to mention the bastard. I was in a perfectly good mood, Cousin. Thanks for ruining it."

The sailor shrugged. "Well, it's true..."

"He can go to Hell," spat the goose hatefully. "Ungrateful, selfish psychopath - doesn't appreciate what he has. Bastard."

"Whoa. Whoa. _Easy_ , Cousin," said Donald, trying not to laugh but unable to keep the smile out of his voice. "He _is_ crazy, we all agree on that. Even Uncle Scrooge wanted to shoot him, but you kn -"

"I can't believe _you_ , of all people, are so calm when it comes to him. Knowing you, I'd have thought you kept the gun ready in your suit for the occasion he actually shows his mug."

"Oh, c'mon-"

"Back then, when I tracked him down," continued Gladstone heatedly. "Did I ever tell you what he told me? He told me, 'I regret it.'"

Donald perked forward. "Regretted leaving them?"

"Regretted fathering them," grit Gladstone in disgust, eyes dark with the memory of a dark scene only he could see. "Why did he do it, Donald? If he had no intention of staying for Della and her kids, _why did he do it_?"

"...The last time I saw him," began Donald, in an oddly calm manner that surprised the angry Gladstone into cutting his rant short. "He told me he didn't care what I tell the boys about him. The one thing he did care they know though, is that their father is no liar.

'If they ask about me', he said, 'tell them I chose my job. That is the truth.' I was beyond angry. I screamed at him to tell them himself because he was their goddamn father and he _owed them at least that one thing_..and he just walked away. Like he always did."

Gladstone opened his beak to say something, but Donald wasn't finished. "That was last July, the nineteenth, and he was to leave Duckburg the following day at noon. I knew which bar he was going to be at before he left. I took the boys."

"...What happened?" breathed Gladstone.

"He was doing God-knows-what behind the counter – spy work as usual – how the hell should anybody know with him – and I stood with the boys in front of him on the other side of the counter and waited till he looked up and saw me. He looked at me, then at the boys. Of course, they didn't recognize him. Then he just downed the last of his glass and walked back into the kitchen. He didn't come out again."

Gladstone swore loudly, and Donald was quite surprised his cousin even knew such a word.

"I give up. I have no more ideas on how I can make him talk to his own children on the rare occasion he does pass through the city," exhaled Donald tiredly as he put the empty tea cup on the table. "I can't figure out how his mind works. I've never met anybody like Art Duck."

"He's evil," growled Gladstone, his fingers tightening on his own empty cup. Donald didn't necessarily agree - Art Duck wasn't exactly evil, but he sure as heck gave no one explanations to anything he ever did.

"Sometimes…" began the sailor with hesitation, but pushed himself to finish his thought. "I'm afraid they'll turn out like him."

"They won't," said Gladstone adamantly. "They have Della, and they have you. I'd much rather they turn out like you than that psychopath."

"I should be taking that as a compliment, huh. Thanks then," said Donald sarcastically.

"Do you think I'll do a good job looking after Shamrock?" wondered Gladstone, busying himself with massaging the egg with another warm blanket.

"Heck, no. You'll spoil him _rotten_ ," sniffed Donald. "I can see it already - you're just gonna leave the raising to me, aren't ya? So it'll be both Della and you. I swear, you two are gonna kill me."

"So you'll do it?" asked the gander, grinning widely.

Donald gave him a tired look, and got up to make more tea.


End file.
